Death laid its eggs in the wound - Federico García Lorca

MADRE: Pues es loca de no haber gritado todo lo que mi pecho necesita. Tengo en mi pecho un grito siempre puesto de pie a quien tengo que castigar y meter entre los mantos.

Black are the horses.
The horseshoes are black.
On the dark capes glisten
stains of ink and wax.
Their skulls are leaden,
which is why they do not weep.
With their patent leather souls
they come down the street.

Between my shoulders, my full and golden soul takes wing. The April sky turns my eyes indigo.